


Московсий Вечер (A Moscow Evening): Who Says You Can't Go Home?

by IreneADonovan



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Disabled Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deaf Clint Barton, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Learning to be Loved, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, OT3, Smiling to Hide the Pain, Temporary Hearing Loss, hearing loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 07:30:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18774082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IreneADonovan/pseuds/IreneADonovan
Summary: On a mission in Moscow, an explosion damages Natasha's hearing. Clint and Bucky, already an established couple, help her cope.





	Московсий Вечер (A Moscow Evening): Who Says You Can't Go Home?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Huntress79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huntress79/gifts).



> This is for Huntress79. I loved your thoughts on this idea, and I tried to work in some of the other points from your letter. I even snuck in a Bon Jovi reference in the title. Not an 80's/90's one, but it was too fitting to pass up. I hope you like...
> 
> The Russian part of the title, should anyone actually want to know, is a slight riff on a Russian song title that translates as "Suburban Moscow Evenings," though it's often translated as simply "Moscow Nights." (And I'm wondering what my parents would think about some of the uses to which I've put that Russian degree. 🙃)
> 
> Also, I want to thank everyone who has been so incredibly welcoming to me in this fandom. I'm still getting my feet wet writing in the MCU, but I'm loving it, and you all are a big part of why. Спасибо большое! 😁😁😁
> 
> Lastly, after reveals, I'll swap out the title collage for one with my pen name on it.

It was good to be back in Moscow. В Москве. Natasha rarely allowed herself the luxury of thinking in her native language, and it was like stretching a muscle too long unused, pleasant and painful both.

Not that she had returned for pleasure. No, this was business, rescuing a tech genius who was being held captive by the Russian mob, forced to work for them. They probably wouldn’t kill him; his skills were too valuable. Still, the risk was there, so time was of the essence.

So she and Barton and Barnes had been dispatched to effect a rescue.

They were in the heart of Moscow, and even as her focus zeroed in on the task at hand, she drank in the sights and sounds and scents that simply screamed “home” to her.

She was Russian to her very core, missed this city in ways she could barely define, yet she would never trade her life now for her life then. She had been no more than a tool, a weapon, indoctrinated, brainwashed, a prisoner without chains.

Now she had her freedom and comrades in more than name, friends who fought beside her, starting with the two bozos she was working with tonight.

Clint, stoic and fiery at turns, with a huge heart. A man who knew both love and loss. As good with most weapons as she was. Better with a bow.

Bucky, the Winter Soldier, as damaged as he was deadly, as much a tool of the Soviets as she had been, and even more of a prisoner. A sniper who'd been kept in cryogenic suspension when his skills were not needed. As good with a gun as Barton with a bow.

They had formed an unlikely partnership almost from the beginning, three damaged warriors not yet ready to give up the fight. Even she had nightmares, ghosts of memories, memories if ghosts unwilling to lie in peace.

Barton and Barnes understood, knew how to soothe her battered soul without condescension. And she, in turn, did the same for them.

Their partnership has been perfect, until the two bozos had fallen in love. With each other.

The changed dynamic had been awkward at first. She'd been on the outside, looking in, and it had hurt, and she'd withdrawn into herself.

Their partnership had nearly broken apart, until the two men had cornered her and set her straight, Bucky's words punctuated with Russian curses, Clint's with flashing hands, signs she didn't know, wasn't sure she wanted to know. She was their partner, and nothing could change that, would change that.

Overwhelmed by unaccustomed emotion, she had let them pull her into a fierce embrace.

Their partnership had shuddered, breathed, lived.

She moved into position, ruthlessly shoving away the memories, tuning out everything but the task at hand.

They entered clean, found the geek, were on their way back out when everything went sideways.

Barnes had exited first, dragging the terrified geek along with him. She and Barton had brought up the rear, to take out anyone who might try to stop them.

As it turned out, a lot of someones tried to stop them.

She took out a goodly number of them, Clint ahead of her doing the same.

Then there was only one left, far down the hallway. He hurled something, and she had just enough time to recognize “grenade” and try to dive for cover.

She was lifted off her feet by a blast of heat and light, thrown into a wall, and she knew nothing more.

**~***~**

She came to with her body battered, her head aching. She was draped over someone's shoulder. Clint's, she realized, recognizing his shirt. “Put me down, Barton,” she said. “I'm fine.”

His grip tightened, his only response.

She repeated herself, a little more sharply.

Or at least she thought it was more sharply. A shiver ran through her as she realized she couldn't hear her own voice. Nor could she hear any of the expected sounds of a bustling city night.

Fuck.

Not that there was anything she could do about it. They had to get clear, get Ivanov to their safe house, get out of the country. Either her hearing would come back, or it wouldn't.

“Barton?” She tried to speak calmly, but she could feel a quaver in her voice. “I can't hear anything.”

He squeezed her leg gently and sped up.

Minutes later, they arrived at their vehicle. Barnes stood beside it, smoking a cigarette, playing it cool. His brows rose as he saw her, saw Barton lower her to her feet. “I'm fine, Barnes,” she said.

But she knew Barton was telling him otherwise.

The ride to the safehouse in the countryside outside the city was tense and far too long. Barton and Barnes both kept shooting concerned looks her way. She smiled at them, aiming for reassuring, knowing she failed miserably.

The tech geek didn't even look at her, just huddled in the back seat beside her, seemingly as terrified of them as he had been of his captors. She sucked at comforting; nonetheless, she set a hand on his shoulder and said, “Всё хорошо.” It's all right.

He looked unconvinced.

She wasn't convinced, either.

She spent the whole trip straining to hear something, anything, but succeeded only in making her headache worse.

Once at the safe house, Bucky took charge of the geek, while Clint pointed her toward a moth-eaten couch. She sank onto it, suppressing a sigh as her body sank into the soft cushions.

Clint sat beside her, turned her face toward him. His hands flashed, saying something in sign she didn't follow. She'd picked up bits, but she was far from fluent. Much of what she knew was mission-related, for times when it was useful to not speak aloud.

She drew on her meager knowledge, signed, “I don't understand.”

He set a hand on her chest. “Breathe,” he said; she was surprised she could recognize the word from his lips.

He saw her surprise, nodded. He opened his mouth, closed it again, pulled out his phone and typed, “Most people read lips more than they realize.”

A small comfort. Very small. Tears welled in her eyes, and she dashed them away angrily. She hated showing weakness. Even now. Especially now.

“We'll get you through this,” Clint typed. She could just read it through the tears blurring her eyes. “You're not alone.” Then he folded her into his embrace and let her cry.

**~***~**

She must have fallen asleep, because she woke in a soft-but-slightly-lumpy bed. And she wasn't alone. Clint and Bucky both lay on the other side of the bed, piled together to allow her her personal space. A soft smile flickered on her lips; they really were cute together, in a deadly sort of way.

It was still full dark, the room illumined by silvery moonlight. She looked at her watch. Two-thirty. She sighed and stretched gingerly, her battered body protesting.

Both men stirred, but Clint relaxed when Bucky placed a stilling hand on his back. He snagged his phone from the nightstand, typed on it left-handed, metal fingers moving at a blur.

Typed. Memory flooded back, dashing away the last vestiges of sleep. She strained against the preternatural silence that enveloped her. Nothing. Damn.

Bucky turned the screen toward her. “How ya doing, Tash?”

“Sore,” she answered. Her whole body pulsed with a fiery aching, her head bad enough to make her feel vaguely sick. “And I still can't hear.”

Bucky nodded, typed some more. “Our pickup is at five. Hang in there; we'll get you some help.”

She met his gaze. “Thanks for not telling me it'll be okay. Because we both know it might not be.”

Bucky squeezed her shoulder with his free hand. “But it also won't be the end of the world.”

“Feels kind of like it right now.”

“I know.” 

His hand went to her cheek, lingered there. “Just don't shut us out,” he typed, “Clint especially. He's been there -- he can help, if you let him.”

She nodded.

“Now let's get some sleep while we still can.”

She doubted she would sleep, but she nodded again.

And she didn't sleep, staring pensively out the window until moonlight gave way to the soft golden light of dawn.

**~***~**

The journey back to New York was long, and she slept for much of it. She suspected Barton had slipped a mickey into her coffee, because she only slept that soundly when she was drugged.

After landing, Barnes and Barton hustled her and the tech geek inside Avengers Tower. Bucky took charge of the geek, taking him for debriefing. Normally it would have been her job, as she was the only native speaker of Russian. But not now.

Clint took her to the medical suite, where Tony had arranged for a trio of specialists in hearing trauma to be awaiting her arrival. They ran what seemed an endless series of tests, then stepped out to confer. By that time, all she wanted to do was retreat to her own space, lick her wounds, sleep for a week. Eventually, the trio delivered their verdict via tablet, and it was hardly a surprise. Her deafness was unquestionably caused by the blast and the blow to the head. Swelling was putting pressure on the nerves, and there wasn't much to be done other than wait. If her hearing was going to recover, it would, maybe partially, maybe nearly fully, maybe not at all.

It was still a blow, the knowledge her hearing might be gone for good. And she was so not going to deal tonight, turning to that most Russian of bad coping mechanisms – vodka.

Barton and Barnes were waiting for her as she exited the medical suite. She sighed. “Look, guys, I appreciate the concern, but all I really need tonight is a bottle of vodka and my bed.”

Clint scowled and signed something she didn't understand, punctuated by an emphatic “no.”

Bucky held his phone up for her. “You shouldn't be alone.”

She bristled. “I'm not helpless.”

Clint snatched up the phone. “Neither of us said you were.” He looked downright offended that she would think he would think that. “You are, however, processing a lot of trauma, both of body and mind, and I don't think you should be alone tonight.”

He paused, raked a hand through his hair, resumed typing. “Don't forget I know what it's like.”

She hadn't.

“I know you're feeling off-balance, disoriented, and that will pass. But until it does, let us be there for you.”

She looked into his earnest blue eyes, then into Bucky's more guarded ones. “Okay.”

They ushered her up to their suite, a couple of floors above her own. It was a bit man-cave for her tastes, but it had a really comfortable couch, which she sank onto with a relieved sigh.

Clint settled next to her, angling his body so he could see her face. He slid the hearing aids from his ears and set them on the coffee table, his eyes closing, a faint tension slipping from his shoulders.

She touched his forearm to get his attention, and his eyes opened, gaze zeroing in on her lips. “Do they hurt?” she asked.

He nodded, reached for his phone, typed, “When I've had them in too long. Tony's tech is fantastic, but the human body has limits. I've had them in for two days straight, and my head is ready to explode.”

She'd known him for years, and she'd never suspected. “Is it worth the pain?”

He shrugged, then typed some more. “Being able to hear certainly has its conveniences, and in the field, I don't have to worry as much that someone will get the drop on me.”

Natasha snorted. The man had an uncanny knack for knowing when he was being watched.

He smiled, reading her expression.

She looked away for a long moment, then looked back at him and took the phone. “Even with the hearing aids, it's not the same, is it?”

His gaze remained on her as he shook his head.

“Do you miss it?”

He took the phone. “I was just a kid when I lost my hearing; I barely remember any other way to be. Being deaf is just a part of who I am.”

“I don't know if I could ever get to that point.”

Clint wrapped one arm around her, typed one-thumbed. “You would, eventually. I spent years pissed off at the world.”

“You're still pissed off at the world,” she teased.

“Not all of it.”

Bucky exited the kitchen then, carrying a bottle of good vodka and three glasses.

“My hero,” she said.

He set the glasses on the coffee table and poured.

She picked up a glass, drained it. Damn, it was smooth as silk. She poured another, sipped at it.  
Bucky sat on her other side, signed something to Clint that she mostly didn't catch. Something about dinner? Her stomach rumbled at the thought.

Bucky took his phone and typed, “Hang in there. I ordered pizza.”

She downed the rest of her drink, set her glass down. That would be enough to get her mellow but nowhere near smashed. She wasn't foolish enough to mix a roaring drunk with a head injury, no matter how tempting the oblivion.

Plus she tended to be a maudlin drunk, and now was not the time to go there. She wrapped her arms around herself and burrowed deeper into the couch.

Clint slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his warm, solid body. Then Bucky was scooting closer, wrapping his arms around both her and Clint, turning her into a Tasha sandwich.

 _Bozhe moy_ , it felt good.

After a few minutes, the tears started to fall. Damn but she hated to cry, hated to show weakness. Not that she could stop them this time. The tears would not be denied, and Clint and Bucky continued to hold her until after they had changed from a hot torrent to a gentler weeping.

That was when the pizza arrived. She re-composed herself as Bucky went to answer the door. Clint offered his handkerchief, and she wiped at her salt-burned cheeks.

The pizza was ridiculously good, though she had little appetite. She managed to eat most of two pieces, but the boys demolished most of two pies. As they ate, Clint and Bucky signed to each other. She tried to follow but only caught maybe one word in three.

She set her plate down, considered the wisdom of a third vodka.

Clint caught her gaze and held it. "Bed," he said, the word clear enough on his lips, though the finger that pointed toward the hallway and the guest bedroom was clearer still.

She didn't argue, too tired and too sore. Clint gave her an old t-shirt to sleep in, and she crawled under the covers.

She woke up screaming. Her throat was raw, telling her she'd been doing so for a while. Clint and Bucky were both in the room, watching her with concern.

"You okay?" Clint signed.

She shrugged. The nightmares were hardly new.

"Come to bed with us." She thought that was what Bucky signed, but it couldn't be.

She frowned, shook her head. Her eyes had to be playing tricks on her.

"Bed. With us." Clint signed slowly, deliberately, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

"Just to sleep?"

"Do you want more?" Bucky asked, then drew her to her feet.

Did she? Hell yeah, she did. She loved these two bozos. She nodded.

"You sure?" Clint asked, searching her face.

For a response, she slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a tender kiss.

His eyes widened, then he was kissing her back, tongue nudging insistently at her lips. She parted them, tasted him, drew him in.

After a heady minute, Bucky tapped her on the shoulder, letting her know it was his turn. Clint looked a little grumpy at the interruption, but he stepped back and let Bucky step in.

Bucky's kiss was far different, wilder, more savage, almost challenging. A challenge she was more than glad to accept. His hands rucked up her t-shirt, slid over her skin, one hand warm flesh, the other cool metal, the contrast uniquely Bucky. She shivered, breathless, almost dizzy.

The three of them undressed each other, gentle and impatient at turns, stood naked before each other, three battered warriors baring their scars. Bucky's might be the most obvious, the line where flesh met metal, but she and Clint were hardly unmarked.

Bucky knelt before her, pressed kisses to the bullet scar on her abdomen, the knife scar on her hip. His hands slid up her thighs, cupped her ass, squeezed.

Clint moved behind her, his broad hands light on her upper arms. He nipped her left earlobe, the small sting counterpointed by the warm caress of his breath. She shuddered, might have gone down to her knees, her equilibrium compromised, but Bucky's hands on her hips steadied her. 

Clint trailed kisses down her neck as Bucky licked one nipple then the other, and her knees wobbled again.

Bucky jerked a nod toward the bed, and she felt Clint's answering nod.

Moving as a seamless team, they scooped her up and deposited her on the bed.

Clint dropped to his knees beside the bed, while Bucky straddled her legs. Clint bent to nip and suck at her breasts; Bucky's hand, the flesh one, slid between her legs. Acting in concert, they teased and tormented, bringing her slowly but steadily toward an inevitable peak. She'd never known sex this gentle, this loving.

She gasped and writhed beneath them as her climax ripped through her, then as she drifted back toward sleep in a contented haze, they gathered her between them in a warm embrace.

**~***~**

She woke alone. No, scratch that, not alone, though neither Clint nor Bucky was in the bed. No, her companion this morning was Lucky, Clint's one-eyed golden-retriever mix. He snoozed, content and oblivious, a note propped against his side, written in Clint's bold, messy scrawl. "Come out for breakfast when you wake up. And don't worry -- Bucky's cooking."

She smiled, sat up, discovered Lucky wasn't her only companion. Someone had retrieved her cat, who lay curled near her feet, as far from Lucky as he could get, watching the dog through one slitted green eye.

"Liho," she called, noting that, though she felt her vocal cords vibrate on the "i," felt the aspirated sound that was the Russian semi-equivalent of an "h," she heard nothing.

She sighed, leaned forward to scritch Liho's velvety black ears. No help for it. Whatever happened, she'd learn to deal.

And she wouldn't be facing it alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Всё хорошо (Fsyoh kharaSHO): Everything's all right.
> 
> Боже мой (BOzhe moy): My god!
> 
> Спасибо болшое (SpaSEEba balSHAya): Many thanks!


End file.
